Poems

His brows and his heavy beard aslant

Under the dimpled chin of the boy,

Who plays with the world upon his palm,

And bends his smiling looks divine

On the face of the giant mild and calm,

And the glittering frolic of the vine.

He smiles on either with equal grace,––

On the simple ivy’s unconscious life,

And the soul in the giant’s lifted face,

Strong from the peril of the strife:

For both are his own,––the innocence

That climbs from the heart of earth to heaven,

And the virtue that gently rises thence

Through trial sent and victory given.

Grow, ivy, up to his countenance,

But it cannot smile on my life as on thine;

Look, Saint, with thy trustful, fearless glance,

Where I dare not lift these eyes of mine.

On my tears, with a meaning new and dread,

Make faltering reason know him dead,

And I would that my heart might feel it too,

And unto its own regret be true;

For this is the hardest of all to bear,

That his life was so generous and fair,

So full of love, so full of hope,

Broadening out with ample scope,

And so far from death, that his dying seems

The idle agony of dreams

To my heart, that feels him living yet,––

And I forget, and I forget.

III.

He was almost grown a man when he passed

Away, but when I kissed him last

He was still a child, and I had crept

Up to the little room where he slept,

And thought to kiss him good-by in his sleep;

But he was awake to make me weep

With terrible homesickness, before

My wayward feet had passed the door.

Round about me clung his embrace,

And he pressed against my face his face,

As if some prescience whispered him then

That it never, never should be again.

IV.

Out of far-off days of boyhood dim,

When he was a babe and I played with him,

I remember his looks and all his ways;

And how he grew through childhood’s grace,

To the hopes, and strifes, and sports, and joys,

And innocent vanity of boys;

I hear his whistle at the door,

His careless step upon the floor,

His song, his jest, his laughter yet,––

And I forget, and I forget.

V.

Somewhere in the graveyard that I know,

Where the strawberries under the chestnuts grow,

They have laid him; and his sisters set

On his grave the flowers their tears have wet;

And above his grave, while I write, the song

Of the matin robin leaps sweet and strong

From the leafy dark of the chestnut-tree;

And many a murmuring honey-bee

On the strawberry blossoms in the grass

Stoops by his grave and will not pass;

And in the little hollow beneath

The slope of the silent field of death,

The cow-bells tinkle soft and sweet,

And the cattle go by with homeward feet,

And the squirrel barks from the sheltering limb,

At the harmless noises not meant for him;

And Nature, unto her loving heart

Has taken our darling’s mortal part,

Tenderly, that he may be,

Like the song of the robin in the tree,

The blossoms, the grass, the reeds by the shore,

A part of Summer evermore.

VI.

I write, and the words with my tears are wet,––

But I forget, O, I forget!

Teach me, Thou that sendest this pain,

To know and feel my loss and gain!

Let me not falter in belief

On his death, for that is sorest grief:

O, lift me above this wearing strife,

Till I discern his deathless life,

Shining beyond this misty shore,

A part of Heaven evermore.

O cool of the aisles of orchards,

Woods that the wild flowers know,––

O air of gold and perfume,

Wind, breathing sweet and sun,

O sky of perfect azure––

Day, Heaven and Earth in one!––

Let me draw near thy secret,

And in thy deep heart see

How fared, in doubt and dreaming,

The spring that is come in me.

For my soul is held in silence,

A rapture, great and dumb,––

For the mystery that lingered,

The glory that is come!

Rapture of life ineffable, perfect,––as if in the brier,

Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose.

“I know that in the meadow-land,––

The bobolinks are singing!

I know that in the meadow-land

The sorrowful, slender elm-trees stand,

And the brook goes by on the other hand,

While the bobolinks are singing.

“But ever I see, in the brawling stream,––

The bobolinks are singing!

But ever I see in the brawling stream

A maiden drowned and floating dim,

Under the water, like a dream,

While the bobolinks are singing.

“Buried, she lies in the meadow-land!––

The bobolinks are singing!

Buried, she lies in the meadow-land,

Under the sorrowful elms where they stand.

Wind, blow over her soft and bland,

While the bobolinks are singing.

“O blow, but stir not the ghastly thing,––

The bobolinks are singing!

O blow, but stir not the ghastly thing

The farmer saw so heavily swing

From the elm, one merry morn of spring,

While the bobolinks were singing.

“O blow, and blow away the bloom,––

The bobolinks are singing!

O blow, and blow away the bloom

That sickens me in my heart of gloom,

That sweetly sickens the haunted room,

While the bobolinks are singing!”

Yet may I touch, in some who hear,

The hearts, wherein old songs asleep

Wait but the feeblest touch to leap

In music sweet as summer air!

I sing in March brief bluebird lays,

And hope a May, and do not know:

May be, the heaven is full of snow,––

May be, there open summer days.

Looked to the western hills, and shone on the humble procession,

Paining with splendor the children’s eyes, and the heart of the mother.

Beauty, and fragrance, and song filled the air like a palpable presence.

Sweet was the smell of the dewy leaves and the flowers in the wild-wood,

Fair the long reaches of sun and shade in the aisles of the forest.

Glad of the spring, and of love, and of morning, the wild birds were singing:

Jays to each other called harshly, then mellowly fluted together;

Sang the oriole songs as golden and gay as his plumage;

Pensively piped the querulous quails their greetings unfrequent,

While, on the meadow elm, the meadow lark gushed forth in music,

Rapt, exultant, and shaken with the great joy of his singing;

Over the river, loud-chattering, aloft in the air, the kingfisher

Hung, ere he dropped, like a bolt, in the water beneath him;

Gossiping, out of the bank flew myriad twittering swallows;

And in the boughs of the sycamores quarrelled and clamored the blackbirds.

Never for these things a moment halted the Movers, but onward,

Up the long hillside road the white-tented wagon moved slowly.

Till, on the summit, that overlooked all the beautiful valley,

Trembling and spent, the horses came to a standstill unbidden;

Then from the wagon the mother in silence got down with her children,

Came, and stood by the father, and rested her hand on his shoulder.

Long together they gazed on the beautiful valley before them;

Looked on the well-known fields that stretched away to the woodlands,

Where, in the dark lines of green, showed the milk-white crest of the dogwood,

Snow of wild-plums in bloom, and crimson tints of the red-bud;

Looked on the pasture-fields where the cattle were lazily grazing,––

Soft, and sweet, and thin came the faint, far notes of the cow-bells,––

Looked on the oft-trodden lanes, with their elder and blackberry borders,

Looked on the orchard, a bloomy sea, with its billows of blossoms.

Fair was the scene, yet suddenly strange and all unfamiliar,

As are the faces of friends, when the word of farewell has been spoken.

Long together they gazed; then at last on the little log-cabin––

Home for so many years, now home no longer forever––

Rested their tearless eyes in the silent rapture of anguish.

Up on the morning air no column of smoke from the chimney

Wavering, silver and azure, rose, fading and brightening ever;

Shut was the door where yesterday morning the children were playing;

Lit with a gleam of the sun the window stared up at them blindly.

Cold was the hearthstone now, and the place was forsaken and empty.

Empty? Ah no! but haunted by thronging and tenderest fancies,

Sad recollections of all that had been, of sorrow or gladness.

Still they sat there in the glow of the wide red fire in the winter,

Still they sat there by the door in the cool of the still summer evening,

Still the mother seemed to be singing her babe there to slumber,

Still the father beheld her weep o’er the child that was dying,

Still the place was haunted by all the Past’s sorrow and gladness!

Neither of them might speak for the thoughts that came crowding their hearts so,

Till, in their ignorant trouble aloud the children lamented;

Then was the spell of silence dissolved, and the father and mother

Burst into tears and embraced, and turned their dim eyes to the Westward.

From dainty rosebud lips in pout,

Must kiss the perfect flowér out!

Ah! little coquette! Fair deceit!

Some things are bitter that were sweet.

She softly, softly purrs,

And claws at the banisters.

IV.

The bird from out its dream

Breaks with a sudden song,

That stabs the sense like a sudden scream;

The hound the whole night long

Howls to the moonless sky,

So far, and starry, and high.

If I dared to believe what I must not,

Believe what no one ought,––

We would read together the poem

Of the Love that never died,

The passionate, world-old story

Come true, and glorified.

On Freedom’s Lookout Mountain whence they routed Freedom’s foe.

O, soft be the gales when they go

Through the pines on the summit where they blow,

Chanting solemn music for the souls that passed below.

Calling upon a name that was sweet

As God is good, with his dying breath.

V.

And the colonel that leaped from his horse and knelt

To close the eyes so dim,

A high remorse for God’s mercy felt,

Knowing the shot was meant for him.

VI.

And he whispered, prayer-like, under his breath,

The name of his own young wife:

For Love, that had made his friend’s peace with Death,

Alone could make his with life.

She sits and clasps her brow,

And looks with swollen eyes

On the landscape that reels and dances,––

To herself she softly cries,

And the sun is bright.

Some spell is on me, for I seem

A memory of the past, a dream

Of happiness remembered dim,

Unto myself that walk the street

Scathed with the city’s noontide heat,

With puzzled brain and burning feet.

Not to waken the dreaming flowers

And the sleepy little birds.”

Back in the gloom the mother

Shrinks with a sudden sigh.

“Now, what dost thou see in the embers?”

Cries the father to the boy.

“O, I see a wedding-procession

Go in at the church’s door,––

Ladies in silk and knights in steel,––

A hundred of them, and more.

“The bride’s face is as white as a lily,

And the groom’s head is white as snow;

And without, with plumes and tapers,

A funeral paces slow.”

Loudly then laughed the father,

And shouted again for cheer,

And called to the drowsy housemaid

To fetch him a pipe and beer.

II.

Under the weltering rapids a boat from the bridge is drowned,

Over the rocks the lines of another are tangled and wound;

And the long, fateful hours of the morning have wasted soon,

As it had been in some blessed trance, and now it is noon.

Hurry, now with the raft! But O, build it strong and stanch,

And to the lines and treacherous rocks look well as you launch!

Over the foamy tops of the waves, and their foam-sprent sides,

Over the hidden reefs, and through the embattled tides,

Onward rushes the raft, with many a lurch and leap,––

Lord! if it strike him loose from the hold he scarce can keep!

No! through all peril unharmed, it reaches him harmless at last,

And to its proven strength he lashes his weakness fast.

Now, for the shore! But steady, steady, my men, and slow;

Taut, now, the quivering lines; now slack; and so, let her go!

Thronging the shores around stand the pitying multitude;

Wan as his own are their looks, and a nightmare seems to brood

Heavy upon them, and heavy the silence hangs on all,

Save for the rapids’ plunge, and the thunder of the fall.

But on a sudden thrills from the people still and pale,

Chorussing his unheard despair, a desperate wail:

Caught on a lurking point of rock it sways and swings,

Sport of the pitiless waters, the raft to which he clings.

III.

All the long afternoon it idly swings and sways;

And on the shore the crowd lifts up its hands and prays:

Lifts to heaven and wrings the hands so helpless to save,

Prays for the mercy of God on him whom the rock and the wave

Battle for, fettered betwixt them, and who, amidst their strife,

Struggles to help his helpers, and fights so hard for his life,––

Tugging at rope and at reef, while men weep and women swoon.

Priceless second by second, so wastes the afternoon,

And it is sunset now; and another boat and the last

Down to him from the bridge through the rapids has safely passed.

IV.

Wild through the crowd comes flying a man that nothing can stay,

Maddening against the gate that is locked athwart his way.

“No! we keep the bridge for them that can help him. You,

Tell us, who are you?” “His brother!” “God help you both! Pass through.”

Wild, with wide arms of imploring he calls aloud to him,

Unto the face of his brother, scarce seen in the distance dim;

But in the roar of the rapids his fluttering words are lost

As in a wind of autumn the leaves of autumn are tossed.

And from the bridge he sees his brother sever the rope

Holding him to the raft, and rise secure in his hope;

Sees all as in a dream the terrible pageantry,––

Populous shores, the woods, the sky, the birds flying free;

Sees, then, the form,––that, spent with effort and fasting and fear,

Flings itself feebly and fails of the boat that is lying so near,––

Caught in the long-baffled clutch of the rapids, and rolled and hurled

Headlong on to the cataract’s brink, and out of the world.